


legs killed the owl

by dalyeau



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, is there such a thing as kneepads kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalyeau/pseuds/dalyeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not smiling anymore an hour later, after he's fucked up four perfect spikes that Akaashi tossed carefully for him because he's too distracted by the lean, elegant line of Akaashi's legs, kneepads dark against the white of Fukurodani's gym.</p>
            </blockquote>





	legs killed the owl

“Bokuto-san.”

That's how it starts. Akaashi calling his name, sounding kind of upset, making Bokuto turn to him in surprise.

“Uh?”

“I think I'll have to skip practice. I forgot my kneepads.”

“Oh.”

Bokuto blinks and then his face breaks into a grin he tries to fight but fails, because Akaashi looks kind of really cute right now, with his brows furrowed and his mouth a tight line of displeasure. It's always nice, remembering that no matter how calm, collected and stoic Akaashi Keiji may be, he loves volleyball just as much as anyone in the team, and the thought of missing the last practice session of the week bothers him enough to make his shoulder tense and his expression tenser.

“Don't worry, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, puffing out his chest and pointing at himself with his thumb. “Bokuto is here to help.”

He holds a finger up, signaling that Akaashi gives him a minute, and he turns to his locker to pull his bag out and sort through the bunch of stuff in it until he finds a little package. It's still sealed, because they're new, even though he bought them months ago. He throws it at Akaashi without warning, who catches it in the air in one quick, fluid motion. Setter reflexes truly are amazing.

“I always got some extra ones with me. You never know.”

Akaashi stares down at the package and then breaks the tag seal open, pulling out the brand new kneepads identical to the ones Bokuto is wearing. He turns them in his hand, examining them like some kind of unknown foreign object, and then he looks up and the wrinkle between his brows is gone. A little pinch of pride flutters in Bokuto's chest, weirdly pleased by being the one who did that.

“Thank you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, nodding respectfully.

So formal. Bokuto smiles and closes his locker again.

“Anything for my favourite kouhai! Now put those on and go stretch, setter.”

“Yes, captain.” Somehow Akaashi's sarcasm always manages to dance in that line between insulting and fond. Today it sounds more fond than insulting. Bokuto's smile widens.

He's not smiling anymore an hour later, after he's fucked up four perfect spikes that Akaashi tossed carefully for him because he's too distracted by the lean, elegant line of Akaashi's legs, kneepads dark against the white of Fukurodani's gym. Bokuto goes into his dejected mode, sulks for a while, and tries to pretend he isn't rendered absolutely useless over his setter's legs, that he doesn't find them so attractive it makes something in his stomach clench painfully, turns his hands into a sweaty, clumsy mess that can't handle a volley ball.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Akaashi is still wearing the kneepads a week later. Not Bokuto's ones, which he returned as soon as last Friday's practice was done, but a pair that are just the same and he bought during the weekend because _now I understand why you prefer these to the conventional ones, Bokuto-san._ When Bokuto had spluttered and gestured wildly on Monday, asking where were Akaashi's old kneepads, his setter had shrugged and said that the ones Bokuto wore were more comfortable, warmer and overall better. Bokuto had nearly fallen to his knees begging for mercy. Six failed spikes out of ten had been the body count that day.

Eventually during the week, he gets better at actually playing volleyball and being a decent captain and functioning human being, though he still is utterly, hopelessly aware of Akaashi's legs, every single minute of every day of practice. He doesn't know why he's noticing them much more now than he did when they weren't as covered, but he supposes it has something to do with the way the material clings to Akaashi's legs and accentuates the curves of his calves, how the deep black colour contrasts against the clean wood of the gym's floor as Akaashi sits with his legs spread open and stretches.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says later as they walk out of the gym after practice, “you have been distracted while playing recently.”

There's no mean-natured accusation in his voice (Bokuto doesn't think Akaashi really has it in him to be purposefully, _actually_ mean, no matter how serious and sarcastic he may be) but it's clear that he's not happy, either. Bokuto can't blame him. Akaashi works hard to be a good setter, and Bokuto shouldn't ruin that with his poor, absent-minded spikes; not to mention that the team deserves a better captain than that.

“Eh,” he says, vaguely waving one hand, because he's not sure how to say that his performance has dropped because Akaashi's stupid kneepads and stupid legs are the reason he's been losing his mind lately.

Akaashi narrows his eyes at him, scratches his jaw like he does every time he gets thoughtful, but he doesn't say anything more. Bokuto is grateful for the small favours in life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It gets worse.

Bokuto could not have imagined that it could get worse, but it does.

At least before, Akaashi's shorts were long enough that they covered the upper end of his kneepads, like Bokuto's own. At least before, Bokuto still had that little shining beacon of peace in his life.

He doesn't know the reason behind it and he's not sure it's something that even has a pointed reason, but today Akaashi's shorts are definitely higher on his hips and they offer Bokuto a clean view of several inches of the pale skin of Akaashi's thighs that aren't covered by his kneepads or his shorts, exposed in between.

It's nothing, it's just the smallest of changes and Bokuto is not some kind of blushing thirteen year old with a crush who gets flustered at something as mundane as _inches of exposed skin_ , but this is where he is right now. This is the biggest opponent he's facing; not Karasuno or Nekoma or Seijou.

So instead of punishing himself about it, letting himself be distracted and tortured by Akaashi Keiji's legs, Bokuto tries a different path. If you can't beat them, join them, and Bokuto embraces his recently acquired kneepads crisis and allows himself to fantasize that if he spikes all of Akaashi's tosses and turns them into score points, then later in the changing room maybe Akaashi will be happy and proud enough to let Bokuto touch that fraction of skin he's showing, he'll let Bokuto help him do some last stretching exercises and touch his legs over the thin material of his kneepads.

Bokuto scores nine out of ten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fantasies get out of control, because Bokuto's life is a joke and he can't even control the thing he resorted to in order to keep his attraction to Akaashi from ruining his volleyball-ing. Now he not only fantasizes during practice as some kind of weird motivation, but every time he sees Akaashi in the hallways or during lunch, every time he thinks of him and those kneepads that Bokuto was so stupid to show him. He thinks about Akaashi _all the time_ , about running his hands over Akaashi's legs and feeling the well-trained muscles flex under his palms and the tight and smooth material of his kneepads.

Trying to convince himself that it's just some general attraction to a pair of aesthetically pleasant limbs works for about a minute and a half; he stares at all of his teammate's legs, but none of them catch his attention for more than a couple of seconds before Bokuto looks away, indifferent, and looking at girls' only makes him feel uncomfortable and like a total creep. It's just _Akaashi's_ legs, and that's where Bokuto tries to convince himself that it's only that, his _legs_ , but that also works for a mere three minutes before Bokuto's mouth is dry as he watches the hollow of Akaashi's throat when he throws his head back to drink from his water bottle. The hard line of his shoulders as he stretches his arms over his head. The sweat that rolls down his temples after practice and makes his dark, curly hair stick to his skin. Bokuto wants to push it away and let his fingers linger there.

“You're the worst,” he tells Akaashi, sincere.

Akaashi's eyebrows rise. “If it'll help, I can go back to my old kneepads. They were fine.”

Bokuto gapes like a fish out of water, and then he does the only thing he can do.

He runs away and locks himself up in the changing room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, that doesn't work out as well as he'd hoped for, because as vice-captain Akaashi is the only other member of the team apart from him who also has a key. Bokuto is sure that the fifteen minutes that pass between his -frankly embarrassing- runaway attempt and Akaashi following him inside the changing room is just Akaashi being kind enough to let Bokuto freak out in much needed solitude.

Akaashi locks the door again behind him, which Bokuto takes as his way of saying that any other escape attempt will be futile. Bokuto swallows hard and he's sweating even though they hadn't even started playing. His limbs feel tingly and annoying, buzzing with adrenaline.

Akaashi knows.

He _knows_.

“I'm sorry!” Bokuto blurts out, limbs flailing everywhere as he tries to explain himself. “It's not like I planned it, alright? Please don't leave the club, Akaashi. I really like your tosses.” And you in general, he wants to say, but the whole point of this apology is convincing Akaashi to stay, not creep him out even more than he already has.

“I'm not leaving the club just because you seem to like my legs a lot, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies calmly. “Just please try to not let it affect your performance again. You've been doing better lately.”

Bokuto's eyes flicker down to Akaashi's legs and he hates himself for it, forces himself to look up quickly as he hopes that Akaashi hasn't noticed.

Akaashi totally noticed.

“I won't, I promise. I don't like being a bad captai- Wait.” Bokuto's arms drop to his sides as he tilts his head to one side. “What? It doesn't bother you?” He doesn't know why he's asking; he should hit himself for asking. Of course it bothers Akaashi. Who wouldn't be bothered? “Crap, don't answer that.”

“It doesn't bother me.” Akaashi scratches his jaw and Bokuto would give his left arm to know what he's thinking about that has him so pensive. “As long as it's not a problem during practice, you can keep...”

And then the impossible happens: Akaashi blushes. It starts like a faint healthy colour on his cheeks and turns into a soft pink that quickly morphs into deep red. It goes right up to the tip of his ears and down to his collarbone. Of course that Akaashi would be the kind of person to blush with his whole body. Bokuto wants to kiss him so badly it makes his belly hurt.

“...looking.”

“Oh,” Bokuto says. “Well. Oh.”

“Please, Bokuto-san, let's go back to practice. I'll toss for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Afterwards, when they're alone once more in the changing room after practice, Akaashi lets Bokuto help him stretch, he places his hands on top of Bokuto's and tells him where and how to press on his legs. When Bokuto's fingers brush over the exposed skin of his thighs in awe, Akaashi sighs a shaky breath, and tells him that he can also keep doing that, as long as Bokuto doesn't let it distract him during practice again. He lets Bokuto be the one to take off his kneepads, watching in that intense concentration of his as Bokuto slowly rolls them down his legs, and when Bokuto decides to kiss him, Akaashi kisses him back, both of them sitting on one of the old wooden benches, Bokuto's hand on Akaashi's knee.

 

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry bokuto is so thirsty for akaashi in all my bokuakas???? i think i'm projecting.


End file.
